The A. Merritt Megapack

by Abraham Merritt

“Not exactly accurate. Say—twenty minutes later. Twenty minutes later—bonk! goes nice bomb. Gentlemanly bomb. Quiet, dignified. But strong. Bonk! Out goes bottom of the Astarte. No boats. Kehjt drinkers have tended to them. Astarte sunk without trace! Bonk! Swoo-oosh! Bubbles! Finish!”

  He became drunkenly plaintive.

  “Don’t—don’t believe fooled old Kirkham for a minute. Don’t believe he thought Satan would run rish-risk anybody on Astarte running across one of us. Anybody telling police about wicked pirates holding ’em up in midocean. To hell with the witnesses! That’s Satan’s motto. Make it ’nother unfathomed mish-mystery of the ocean. That’s best way. That’s Satan’s way.”

  “Well,” I said, “I’m damned glad to hear it. It was the one thing that I was uneasy about—”

  The drunkenness dropped from Cobham like a cast-off cloak. His face became white and pinched. The glass fell from his hand.

  Out of a darkened corner of the room walked Satan!

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  It was a crisis. And a bad one. There was no doubt about that. A time for quick thinking, if ever there was one. I cared nothing about what happened to Cobham. That callous devil could have been whisked to Hell without my turning a hair. But I, myself, was in the gravest danger of sharing his fate. If Satan thought that I had deliberately drawn his confidences he would waste no time asking for explanations. The fact that I had not accepted his word would in itself call for my punishment.

  Worst of all, I had caught him lying to me. He might decide that would render me useless to him thereafter. But that was secondary. The paramount thing was that it made him, as the Chinese say, “lose face.” If his ancestry was what Barker believed, that was the one unforgivable affront. Whether it was or was not, I knew that Satan’s infernal intellect was clothed with as infernal a pride. And that pride had been wounded.

  My only chance for escape lay in healing the wound before Satan knew that I had perceived it. I jumped to my feet and walked towards him.

  “Well,” I laughed, “have I passed the test?”

  Instantly he caught it. Whether, at the moment, he believed me as naive as my question implied, I could not know. Still, after all, why not? It was exactly the kind of trap, or rather experiment, he had been teaching me to expect him to conceive.

  Nor did I know how long he had been listening. Had he intentionally left Cobham and me together to see what would happen? And heard all? Probably. If so there had been no single word I had spoken upon which his suspicion could feed. At any rate, to follow my lead was the only way he could maintain his pride. Save his face. He followed it.

  “Cobham,” he said, “you were right.”

  He turned to me.

  “Tell me, James Kirkham, when did you first suspect that you were under test? I am curious to know exactly how keen that perception of yours is.”

  He waved to me to be seated, and dropped into his own chair. I kept my eyes steadily averted from Cobham.

  “The first thing that puzzled me, Satan,” I said, “was your attitude toward the Astarte. It would certainly not have been mine. That dead men tell no tales, is a safe and sane old rule. I would have followed your instructions—but,” I added, boldly, “I would not have approved of them.”

  His eyes never left me as I spoke. I felt his will beating against mine like a hammer, endeavoring to strike out the truth.

  “When did your suspicion become certainty?” he asked.

  “At the moment you appeared here,” I told him.

  Suddenly I let some of my anger find vent.

  “I’ll stand for no more such experiments upon me, Satan,” I cried, with a cold fury that had none of its roots in the matter in hand, but was real enough nevertheless. “Either I am to be trusted wholly, or I am not to be trusted at all. If you do trust me and I fail you—well, you have the remedy in your hands and I am ready to pay the penalty. But I’ll not be the subject of any more laboratory experiments, like a child in a psychological clinic. By God, I won’t!”

  I thought that I had won. Not only won, but that I had leaped into higher regard than Satan had ever held me. If those gem-hard eyes could be said to soften, they did.

  “I agree, James Kirkham,” he said, quietly. “Yet I am glad that I put you to this test. Since it has fully revealed to me what dependence I can place upon you.”

  “I made my decision. I gave my word,” I said, a little stiffly. “As long as you play fair with me, I obey your orders, Satan. Let that be understood, and you will find no more loyal servant.”

  “I do understand, James Kirkham,” he answered.

  I ventured to look at Cobham. He had regained some of his color. He was watching me, queerly.

  “Cobham,” I laughed, “you could be as good an actor as you are a chemist.”

  “Cobham—has been—very valuable to me,” said Satan. “And never more than tonight.”

  I saw a deep shudder shake Cobham. I feigned to observe nothing. Satan arose.

  “Come with me, Cobham,” he said: “There are matters we must discuss. And you—” he looked at me.

  “I’ll turn in,” I said. “I know the way.”

  He strode across the room, Cobham following. Once he turned and shot me a strange glance. There was gratitude in it—and there was deadly terror.

  I walked over to the panel that was the beginning of the road to my room.

  “James Kirkham,” I turned, and saw Satan standing by the opposite wall. His bulk almost hid Cobham, now in front of him.

  “Sir?” I answered.

  “James Kirkham,” he said, “I was never better pleased with you than I am now. Good night.”

  “I am glad, sir,” I replied. “Good night.”

  The panel behind him clicked open. I pressed upon a hidden spring, the wall parted. Before me was the tiny elevator. I entered it. Satan and Cobham were passing through that other wall.

  I caught a glimpse of two of the kehjt slaves, cords in hands, gliding to Cobham’s side.

  As my panel closed I thought I saw them pinion his arms!

  And now I was in my rooms. Eve would be expecting me, but I had no desire to make further excursion that night. That Satan had taken my bait, I was reasonably sure. But Cobham was in for punishment—how severe I could not tell. The emphasis Satan had put upon that “has been” in speaking of his usefulness was ominous. Cobham had caught the threat. And there had been that swift vision of the slaves closing in on him. I would be on Satan’s mind, whatever he believed. It was possible that he might summon me; might even come to me.

  It was best to stay where I was. Barker would be along sooner or later. I would send him with a message to Eve.

  I snapped out all the lights except a dim one in the living room, undressed, and turned in. I lay there, smoking, I felt more than a little sick, and filled with a hot, helpless rage. The affair of the Astarte would have been bad enough even as Satan had outlined it. Cobham’s revelations made it hideous. I would go on with it, of course. There was nothing else to do. If I refused, it would be the end both of Eve and myself. And some one else would take my place. Cobham, in fact, had made it imperative that I should go. I must find some means of averting that ruthless destruction of the treasure ship. Obviously, the chances were that would mean the end for me also. But it had to be done. I knew that if I stood aside and let those helpless people go down, I could never more live at peace with myself. I knew that Eve would feel the same about it.

  What I hoped most desperately was that we could find the way to break Satan before the time came for my sailing.

  Suddenly I was aware that some one was in the outer room. I slipped noiselessly out of bed and to the curtains. It was Barker.

  I beckoned to him.

  “Careful, Harry,” I whispered. “Come in here, and keep those ears of yours wide open. Things have been happening.”

  Briefly I sketched the developments of the day, from my conversation with Consardine to Cobham’s drunken disclosures and his sinister s
hepherding by Satan. I could feel the little man shiver at that.

  “Gord,” he muttered. “Cobham’s a proper devil, but I’m sorry for ’im. Satan, ’e’ll see ’e don’t no more talkin’. We got to work quick, Cap’n.”

  “I’ve an unbreakable hunch that my work is to stay right in this room,” I told him. “And if you don’t think that is going to be the hardest kind of work, with Miss Demerest expecting me, you’re wrong.”

  “No,” he said, “you’re right, sir. An’ I’ve got to get h’out quick as may be. ’Ere’s what I come to tell you. I h’acted like a bloody dummy last night when you ’inted about Satan an’ what ’e done when ’e ’id ’is ’ands. Fair took me off my feet, you did, just like Consardine. I ’adn’t been away from you five minutes before I saw ’ow it could be done. ’Ell, I saw a dozen wyes it could be done.”

  “Right,” I whispered, “but cut the explanations. How are we going to find out if he does it?”

  “That’s what ’as been rackin’ my brains all dye,” he answered. “’Ow to get in the Temple an’ look over the black throne. The gold one sinks down an’ under, but the black one’s built in. An’ there’s two of the kehjt slyves watchin’ it in there h’every hour of the dye an’ night. Four-hour shifts they got, an’ you can bloody well wyger ’e picks proper plucked ’uns for that duty, Cap’n.”

  “No trouble gettin’ in, there’s ’arf a dozen trick entrances back of them thrones. Ten minutes, an’ we’d know what was what. But ’ow the bloody ’ell to get them ten minutes? No good shootin’ the paste-faced blighters. That’ll bring ’em all down on us. No good killin’ ’em nohow. The minute they found ’em Satan’ld know what the gyme was.”

  He was silent for a moment.

  “Cripes!” he said at last, “if we could only get some bloomin’ h’angel to drop down an’ ’old a glass of the kehjt under their noses! They’d follow it like a ’ungry lion would a bone! An’ see no thin’ else!”

  I caught his shoulders, heart thumping.

  “By God, Harry! You’ve hit it!” My voice was shaking. “Do you know where he keeps that hell brew? Can you get at it?”

  “Sure I know,” he said, “An’ there ain’t none better at my trade than me, Cap’n, as I told you. I’d sye I could get it. But then what?”

  “We’ll be the angel,” I told him. “It works quick, I know that. How long does it keep them under?”

  “I don’t know,” he answered. “Some longer, some shorter. We’d ’ave our ten minutes, though, an’ a lot to spare—

  “Cripes!” he chuckled. “What a gyme! If they wake up before the relief comes they ain’t likely to say nothin’. An’ if they don’t, they ain’t likely to get a chance to say nothin’. An’ if they do get a chance either way, who the ’ellwould believe ’em?”

  “Get the stuff,” I said. “Try to get it tomorrow. And now play safe. Get out of here. If you can manage it, tell Miss Demerest not to look for me tonight. Tell her not to worry. But take no chances. Harry, you’re a wonder. If you were a girl, I’d kiss you. Scoot!”

  Again he chuckled; another moment and I knew he had gone.

  I went into the other room and put out the dim light. For the first time since I had fallen into Satan’s hands I felt free of that damnable depression—oppression, rather—which had shadowed me. It was as though a door had begun to open. A door of escape.

  I slept soundly. I awakened once in the night from a dream that Satan was standing over me, watching me. Whether it was all a dream, I do not know. Perhaps he had really entered to resolve some lingering doubt. If so, my sleep must have reassured him, for it was that of one who had not a care on his mind. I lost no time worrying about it; in another moment I was asleep again.

  The next day passed quickly enough. I was up early. As I was dressing, the ’phone rang. It was Consardine. He said that Satan wished me to go out to the yacht after I had breakfasted. He, Consardine, would accompany me.

  There had been no change of plans, then. I was still cast for my piratical role.

  When I entered the breakfast room, Consardine was waiting for me. We ate together. I was itching with curiosity about Cobham. But I asked no questions, nor did Consardine speak of him. We walked down to the boat landing, talking of this and that. Tacitly, neither of us made any reference to the conversation of the previous day. It must have been uppermost in his mind, as it was in mine. Yet, after all, there was nothing more to say. He had made his position sufficiently plain.

  A cutter was waiting for us, and took us out to the Cherub. The yacht was as beautiful inside as out. The captain was a squat, thickset, broad-shouldered Newfoundlander. He was introduced to me as Captain Morrisey. It may or may not have been the name his parents gave him. Probably not. He was a genial pirate. A hundred years back, and he would have been floating the Jolly Roger. The first mate was a clean-cut saturnine chap with the hall mark of Annapolis. The crew were as hard-boiled looking a lot as any the Marine Corps ever produced.

  The discipline was military and perfect. It reached its apotheosis in the engine room. The engines, specially designed, oil-burning Diesels, were marvels. So interested was I that lunch time came around before I realized it. I had not been mistaken about Morrisey. He told us tales of smuggling and gun- and rum-running in which he had been active before he had signed with Satan. Born a hundred years too late for the Black Flag, he had done his best with the material at hand. He was a pirate, but I liked him.

  When we got back to the chateau, I found a summons from Satan. With many misgivings I obeyed it. The misgivings were all wrong. I spent two of the most fascinating hours I had ever known. I was guided to that part of the great house which was Satan’s own intimate domain. I cannot begin to describe what I saw there, nor the atmosphere of those dozen or more chambers, large and small, wherein that dark strange soul took its delight. Each of them was a temple in which the mysterious, indefinable and eternal spirit that humanity calls beauty and has always worshiped and sought to capture had become incarnate. A living thing.

  And Satan was different. He was transformed—gentle, no mockery either in word or look. He talked only of the treasures about us. It came to me that he loved beauty even more than he did power; that he considered power only as a means toward beauty. And that, evil though he was, he knew beauty better than any one alive.

  When I left him, his spell upon me was strong. I had to fight against the conviction that what I had beheld justified him as to any means he had taken to get it; that the true criminal was he who would try to thwart him. Absurd as it may seem, I felt myself hideously guilty in the plans I was harboring. It was with difficulty that I held myself back from confessing them, throwing myself on his mercy, swearing myself to him. I think that only the thought of Eve kept me from doing so.

  That was, perhaps, his object. But I had to tell myself so, over and over again after I had left him, to banish the loathing I felt about going on against him. If this seems deplorable weakness, I can only say that he who thinks so would not if he had been subjected to that same sorcery, and had listened to Satan preaching in the heart of the miracle he had fashioned.

  If it was a trap, I escaped it. But to this day—I do not know whether in the greater sense Satan was not right.

  The company at dinner helped me to throw off the obsession. A brisk bridge game afterward did more. It was close to midnight when I returned to my rooms. I had not seen Eve all day. Consardine had mentioned, casually, as we were going in to dinner, that she had gone to town, and probably would not return that night. I took it as a hint that it would be useless for me to venture to her room.

  I dropped off to sleep hoping for Barker. He did not come.

  There were some truly charming people at the breakfast table next morning. Among them an Australian major, a soldierly and engaging scoundrel. We went riding together, following a different road than that which I had covered with Consardine. At one point it ran parallel to the driveway. A smart little roadster hummed by, headed f
or the chateau. Eve was driving it. She waved. The Australian took the greeting to himself, remarking that there went a damned nice girl. Everything seemed suddenly brighter. It meant that I would see her that night. At least, that was what I thought then.

  After we had stabled the horses, I hung about the pleasant terrace. Maybe I would get another glimpse of Eve, maybe even a whispered word. About four o’clock Consardine appeared and dropped down at the table beside me.

  Consardine seemed ill at ease. We had a drink or two, and talked of this and that, but it was plain that something was on his mind. I waited for him to speak, not without a certain apprehension. At last he sighed, and shook his great shoulders.

  “Well,” he said, “unpleasant medicine gets no sweeter while we hesitate over taking it. Come along with me, Kirkham. Satan’s orders.”

  I remembered vividly his declaration that if his master commanded him, he would unhesitatingly take me prisoner. I felt a distinct shock.

  “Does that mean that I am under arrest?” I asked.

  “Not at all,” he answered. “There is something—some one—Satan wishes you to see. Do not ask me his purpose. I do not know it. I might guess, but—ask me no questions. Let us go.”

  I went with him, wondering. When he finally stopped we were, I thought, in one of the towers, certainly we had gone far above the ground floor. We were in a small, bare room. More a crypt, in fact, than a room. One of its walls was slightly curved, the bulge toward us. Consardine walked over to this wall, and beckoned me beside him. He touched a hidden spring. An aperture about a foot square, like a window, opened at the level of my eyes.

  “Look through,” he said.

  The place into which I peered was filled with a curiously clear and palely purplish light. It was distinctly unpleasant. I became aware of a thin droning sound, faint but continuous, upon one note. I was not enough of a musician to place the note, but it was quite as high as that made by the rapid vibration of a bee’s wings. That, too, was unpleasant. Light and droning had a concentration-shattering quality, a blurring effect upon the mind.